


let the new shit begin.

by thenapkinthief



Category: Community
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenapkinthief/pseuds/thenapkinthief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of this, Britta would like to point out, is not her fault. Or a history of make outs with a nineteen year old and her eventual bedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let the new shit begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the prompt: “Oh, 'cause blue skies are coming, but I know that it's hard."

It starts as an accident. And to be fair, it is an accident in which Jeff Weiner and gin are involved: that was never going to end well. It starts with a dare and Annie's tongue slipping past her lips like a ninja tongue (trufax: Britta never gave permission for this to go down, and no not like that, but moans do not count as yes’s, something she will have to teach Annie, eventually). And well Annie is a really good kisser, seriously how did she get that good! She's like 12, and then Annie's chest bumps against her own and no, definitely not 12. So maybe that first time it ends with her fingers snuck under the top of Annie's pants and Annie leaving a hickey on her neck.

But you know, it kind of _doesn't_ end there.

Which Britta would like to point out isn't her fault, 'cause apparently Annie is curious and _determined_. Britta is not encouraging this. That first day when Britta is hung-over (and, okay maybe slightly drunk again 'cause she realized at 4 in the morning that she'd just come to the thought of Annie's lips on her, and really she hadn't technically been asleep yet so it wasn't morning drinking) when she is vulnerable is when Annie strikes. She's leaving the study group like a normal person when she is suddenly _pushed_ into one of the stacks and is attacked by ninja tongue again. Britta is half drunk and half hung over and _seriously_ she just masturbated to the thought of this girl hours ago how is she not supposed to let her hands drift to wrap around Annie's pale neck under the layers of dark hair? How is she not supposed to allow her lips to drift to nibble at Annie's earlobe just to hear the soft gasp and swear as she's allowed greater access? Then after several minutes of awesome Annie moves back. "Calculus," is all she says. She pats her hair down once and smiles brightly. Britta's just left to stand there wondering what the fuck is happening in her life.

It becomes routine to find herself pulled, pushed, texted or tricked into an empty classroom, broom cupboard, the Dean's office on more than one occasion, for a make out session. She wants this to be clear if it ever comes to light: she is not the aggressor. She follows after Annie like any right-minded thinking person would if offered the same. She follows after the ends of dark hair swaying, and the desire in blue eyes smiling at her, and the way lips pull wide and genuine over pearly white teeth. Britta has no choice in this matter she would like to say, because who _wouldn't_.

Britta finally asks one of the many question she has for Annie regarding this habit of making out randomly, _finally_ after a month has passed this into normality. "Are you gay or is this just an experiment or what?" Annie just shrugs. "I like you," and it's so empty of guile and lust and anything other than _just that_ : I. Like. You. that for the first time it is Britta pushing Annie against the nearest surface. And you know, Annie started it by pulling her into the classroom, though Britta may be forced to say that she is the one who went to second base first, but you know Jeff was right, Annie's breasts were totally awesome, so blame may still not be hers.

The problem is once hands have begun properly wandering, they don't stop. Annie shows up waiting at her car when Britta has finished her last class. And like suburban teenagers they go at each other in the backseat. With hands and lips and pushing each other to see how far they can go, and when finally at last Annie's clever fingers find a way beneath Britta's jeans and her world narrows down to _just that spot_ , Britta thinks maybe this is time to admit she may really fucking want this.

 

The combination of admitting she wants Annie and the knowledge that _good god_ are they getting good at this, is making it really, really hard for Britta to keep a line drawn around whatever _this_ is. She starts getting these weird urges to bump shoulders with Annie in the hall; to stretch her leg out under the study room table to play footsie; she even starts wondering what it would be like to fall asleep next to her. And the worst part: they haven’t even seen each other naked and these coupley things plague her almost as much as that desire. Britta has admitted all of these things to herself though and that makes her just as determined as Annie. So Britta lays out a plan.

She calls it a “girl’s night” instead of a “date” (but really what is a date but a patriarchal way to judge how easy a girl is?). She bypasses the foreign film section and documentaries for finding a comedy movie they can actually enjoy (she almost gets _Imagine Me & You_ and decides that might just undermine not calling it a date). She plans for pizza and beer instead of French food and wine, opts for turning off the overhead light and buying a floor lamp instead of candles. The mood is there but not obvious by the time she’s nervously double-checking that she has hidden her dirty underwear and the one stuffed bear she can’t let go of. And then her buzzer rings.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

They stand on the threshold of the door for a full minute before Annie finally clears her throat nervously and holds up a bottle of wine. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” And Britta wants to kick herself; she’s supposed to be smooth tonight.

“Good thing about living where I do, no one checks IDs.” She says smiling. And god, Britta could kick herself, she isn’t even old enough to drink _what is she doing_? But then Annie decides to ignore Britta’s silence and finds the kitchen on her own and starts searching for a wine opener and on the third attempt finds it. She looks up and smiles that Disney fucking princess smile at Britta and she finds all of her plans go out the window. Because there isn’t really anything to do when someone looks quite so at home in your place then let them open a bottle of wine instead of one of the cans of beer in fridge. And when Annie mentions dinner Britta somehow offers Chinese instead of pizza, and somehow waiting to start the movie for when food gets here turns into ignoring the movie for talking with the food spread out between them on the floor and Noah and The Whale playing in the background.

And then Annie spots her scrabble set.

Her plans for date night ( _girls’ night_ she reminds herself, we are _not_ dating, she forces herself to think) are in tatters. She thinks this is much better though when finally their fingers brush over arguing over a challenge (at least Annie agrees: no proper fucking nouns) and Annie turns to her palm so that they’re holding hands. “Let’s clean up.”

“We don’t have to.”

But Annie rolls her eyes and stands up and pulls her up after. Annie starts picking up Chinese cartons, the now empty bottle of wine and somehow it’s all full of a something like a guarantee Britta isn’t quite sure how to read. She really wishes she felt like she wasn’t always a step behind in this relationship. But she puts the scrabble pieces back in their little velvet pouch, sticks the box back in the bottom of her bookshelf. Goes into the kitchen when a quiet question drifts through her apartment. “Where is your recycling?” And Annie watches as she washes out the wine bottle and puts it in the proper bin. Annie watches as she dries her hand on a dishtowel.

“I think anything else will keep to morning.”

“Yeah.” Annie agrees.

Then it’s just them, alone here, in a place with an actual bed. When they kiss at last, it’s like it is all new. It is slow and paced, soon and wants instead of quick, greedy, now and need. Annie’s hands slowly travel over her body in a way that feels as foreign as it is familiar. Clothes are dropped slowly in a clichéd meander to the bedroom. Each button is undone with shaking fingers; their lips are soft, and fleeting against each other’s skin. And she is so glad Annie seems as nervous as she is ‘cause otherwise this would be embarrassing. Finally, _finally, finally_ they are entwined naked and slowly bucking and searching in her bed. It’s easy to make the other one finish, that they know. But Britta takes a new sort of pleasure in finding all the noises Annie can make when she is laid like a promise across her bed.

When it is all said and done she finds herself curled up low against Annie’s body, her chin resting on the curve of one hip bone and her hand playing along the crest of the other.

“Tonight didn’t go how I planned it at all.”

“Do you mind?”

“Will I get another chance to do it my way?”

And Britta swears she can here the smile in Annie’s voice. “Of course.”

Britta feels rather silly laying there with Annie’s hand playing lightly with her hair, ‘cause she has phrases like “second chances,” and “right,” and “new beginnings,” dancing through her head. She finds she isn’t at all against being a little silly, if this is really just the start.


End file.
